Tag Archives: summer

Figs are the sexiest fruit. Aside from their feminine shape and sweet, squishy interior, they’re sexy because they’re elusive, at least in these parts. The New England–grown figs I’ve eaten have been dry and disappointing. A good, ripe fig spews its jellied guts when you take a bite. I guess there’s an exception to the “better local” rule.

But California figs, if you can get your hands on them, are awfully good. My favorite variety of those I’ve been able to try isn’t the slinky purple Black Mission Fig, but the green Kadota. I can eat only one at a time; they’re diminutive but their sweetness is concentrated and it goes right to my head. That’s why I never use them in desserts; they can’t take the sugar.

I didn’t make it up to Maine this summer. Maybe that means summer didn’t happen, because Maine is the state of summer for New Englanders. It’s the capital of summer for those who’ve grown tired of The Cape, a reward for those who can will themselves to drive past that scary and confusing state called New Hampshire. It’s a place where the clearness of the water makes up for its frigid temps. For out-of-towners like me, it seems to exist only for vacation (it’s called Vacationland, after all); it’s a place to go, not a place to stay—weekend Xanax, essentially. Maine has all the chill.

Besides “chill,” when I think about Maine, I think about my mom, not because she’s chill—I’m a product of a chill-less family—but because I spent many summer days there when I was a child, with just her. She worked weekends and nights and so I had a gift many other kids didn’t (or, they did, because we were misplaced shit-eaters in a town where no one seemed to have to work): a summer vacation adventure partner. Tuesdays were usually our big day, and we wouldn’t make it past Ogunquit—a day is only so long—but we had the best time driving with the windows open, baking and snoring on the beach, absolutely ruling at paddle ball, and eating cliché Maine blueberry confections, most frequently a slice of blueberry pie at The Goldenrod in York. That’s why cool vanilla ice cream melting into a dark purple sea of molten blueberries is my madeleine, and my favorite taste of summer.

I’ve written a tad more eloquently about having only picked or plucked, never grown or harvested, my own food. While I’ve not tested my thumb, I assume it’s black. But the real reason why I don’t plant is that I rent and lack space in the city. And the even realer reason is harder to admit: I’m lazy. Lazy when it comes to this, anyway. I enjoy supporting my local farmers—it makes my summer. But, really, I revel in being able to eat nourishing, soul-hugging, vibrant, delicious food without having to lift that finger, no matter what color it is. I love to sweat, I love the sun, I love produce, I love feeling satisfied. You’d think that I’d work for those things. Maybe one day, when I have the space, I’ll have the incentive to. Because I like most things (crème fraîche, almond milk, nut butter, granola, ice cream, mayo etc.) best when homemade; homegrown would bring things to a new level.

Despite having only an unkempt (but charming!) little swatch of backyard at my current apartment, which I’ve lived in for a bit over a year, I have a peach tree on the property. Yes, a flourishing peach tree, just there in a yard in Eastern Massachusetts. We do nothing and the peaches come. Nothing. It’s glorious. Well, it would be glorious if, in the two seasons I’ve shared a space with this tree, I’d climbed a ladder to pick even one of its rosy fruits. If I had, I’d eat it right there, fly-attracting juice staining my cheeks, my clothes, the ground.

Sorry, I don’t have many words to share today. And I don’t believe in trying to craft them when they’re just not coming naturally. I am here for a reason, though, and it is simply to deliver a call for action. For a brief public service announcement, if you will:

Well, here we are. That inevitable point when I start whining and complaining about how summer was lost. How my skin’s so snowy white you can tell it didn’t carry my bones to very interesting places these past months. How I didn’t do X or Y. How I haven’t been able to just breath and be—whatever that really means. But I’ll spare you. Summer cannot be lost. If you lose summer, it is your own damn fault. And, yes. I fully acknowledge that it’s my own damn fault.

However, I shake my fist at those who mark summer’s end with this coming holiday weekend. Please. Give me until September 21st, kay? I’ve seen local apples and pears at my farmers’ market for weeks. I’ve bought them. They’re sweet-tart and crispy and shiny and vibrant and everything that makes this born-and-raised New England girl happy. But they are demon fruit. And they’re not going to trick me. They may have tricked Eve*, but they will not get me. There will be no apple anything coming out of this kitchen. I will partake in no apple or pear pies, crisps, muffins, slaws, compotes, sauces, or dumplings—no matter how cute the word “dumpling” is. Hear that? I AM NOT HAVING IT. OK, so I’m eating apples and pears, but I am eating them raw and cold and crisp. That’s IT.

I am so honored and excited to have a guest post featuring this creamy-dreamy recipe for raspberry–pink peppercorn custard cups (with whipped cream! and candied pistachios!) on The Vanilla Bean Blog while Sarah lives what she is calling the “Summer of Fun” for herself and for her gorgeous family. Sarah’s space is one of my favorite’s—if not my very favorite—on the web, and I am so grateful to have found her blog in 2011. If I could be half the blogger she is, I’d be doing something right. Her voice and words grip me, her photos move me, and her recipes are beautiful. Stop on by to read my post but, more importantly, to discover, if you haven’t already, Sarah’s site.

Laundromats. I haven’t thought much about them before. I am one of those rare and lucky city dwellers to have always had either in-unit or decent in-building washers and dryers. Well, until I moved into my current apartment. My house has a small coin-operated washer and dryer in a dark corner of a wet and murky unfinished basement. Neither machine works particularly well, making the setup even less inviting. So I use a laundromat. Down a hill and onto a main road, it’s a mere 2-minute walk from my house. This laundromat is really just a small room with washers on the right and dryers on the left. Oh, and a drop-off area for lazy people (or, most likely, lazy, parent-supported kids), so they can leave bulging knapsacks of their things for the little elves that must hide behind that door to tend to.

But, like I said, I had never really given laundromats that much thought. I assumed I preferred my laundry experience more private. My fondest laundry memories involve running through wet bed sheets hanging from wooden clothespins on the rotating clothesline in my grandparents’ large backyard on hot days. With my arms spread open and solid colors, stripes, and light pink flower buds flashing through my eyes I crashed into the silky fabrics, imagining that my touch would somehow facilitate the drying process. I’d run that thing in circles until I was dizzy and the sheets felt just a little less wet. I’d done my job.

I’ve been more inspired than ever by the farmers’ market this year. I’m not sure why. My meals have been easy but beautiful in how fresh they are. But last week I saw a shift at the market—a sudden one. It was ten times fuller, more vibrant than it had been just a week before. There was now an American flag of berry varieties, corn (!), potatoes, multi-colored carrots, cherry and grape tomatoes. I am missing the asparagus and strawberries of early summer, but my mood brightened as I made my rounds, trying not to buy everything. (As I walked, I recited a staccato chant, “one person, one stomach, shared refrigerator.”)

But despite those spring/early summer goods being gone, there were still so many peas. Peas. Have we not had our fill? Since the farmers’ markets started for the season, every farm, every vendor has had what seems like a bottomless basket of English Shelling Peas. I love them, sure. They’re sweet and crunchy and green, and I love the way they pop in between my teeth. But their supply seems never-ending. I had always thought their season was relatively short. I thought they couldn’t survive the heat. But hordes swarm them week after week, picking, eating, bagging, buying, and there are still so many once I reach the market at my late hour.

I’ve been thinking hard about something lately. These thoughts weren’t initially spurred by peas, of course. My dad’s friend and co-worker, let’s just call him [J] for the sake of anonymity, passed away last week. He started suffering a year or so ago from an advance stage of cancer. Boom. Out of no where. I’d be lying to you if I said I knew this man. I met him once. Tall, skinny as heck, long-haired, and a bit country. That’s all I remember about him. But what I do know is that he trained my dad at his company (my dad has been with the company for around 25 years) and my dad eventually became one of his bosses and managers. My dad said he was brilliant; he may have even used the term “genius,” I don’t know. But I do know that he was someone who touched my dad’s life profoundly.